Mourn, ye Graces and Loves, and all you whom the Graces love. My lady's sparrow is dead, the sparrow my lady's pet, whom she loved more than her very eyes; for honey-sweet he was, and knew his mistress as well as a girl knows her own mother. Nor would he stir from her lap, but hopping now here, now there, would still chirp to his mistress alone. Now he goes along the dark road, thither whence they say no one returns. But curse upon you, cursed shades of Orcus, which devour all pretty things! My pretty sparrow, you have taken away. Ah, cruel! Ah, poor little bird! All because of you my lady's darling eyes are heavy and red with weeping.

Arthur Christopher Benson (1862-1925), The Sparrow:

O pertest, most self-satisfied Of aught that breathes or moves,See where you sit, with head aside, To chirp your vulgar loves:Or raking in the uncleanly street You bolt your ugly meal,Undaunted by the approaching feet, The heedless splashing wheel.

Old poets in your praise were stirred -- I fear you must forget --Catullus loved you, shameless bird, You were his lady's pet.You heard her dainty breathing, perched Beside her when she slept;You died: -- her pretty cheeks were smirched; -- And 'twas for you she wept.

The imperious Bustard strides no more Across the grassy waste;The gallant Ruff deserts the shore He trampled into paste;The Oriole falls, a flaming sprite, Before the unsparing gun;Whilst thou by some diviner right Dost wanton in the sun.

When prey is scarce, when tempests fret And freeze the stiffening loam,The worm has tunnelled deeper yet, The beetle sits at home,You shake your chilly limbs, and puff Your crest in mild surprise,And peep, a ball of downy fluff, With bright and beaded eyes.

No secret raptures thrill your throat On fragrant moonlit nights;You never had the mind to note Indignities or slights;The soul that craves, but rarely finds The vague, the high, the true,The weaknesses of noble minds, -- They never troubled you.

Your selfish purpose never swerves From its appointed end;Your sturdy bonhomie deserves Success, but ne'er a friend.Where sweetness languishes, and grace, You multiply and thrive; --It proves you, of the feathered race, The fittest to survive.

Contentment and equality Are pleasing names enough;But we prefer, we know not why, A more ethereal stuff.Ignoble welfare, -- doubtful good -- We see with clouded eyes;We did not make the world, -- yet would To God 'twere otherwise!

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), Passer Mortuus Est:

Death devours all lovely things;Lesbia with her sparrowShares the darkness, -- presentlyEvery bed is narrow.

Unremembered as old rainDries the sheer libation,And the little petulant handIs an annotation.

After all, my erstwhile dear,My no longer cherished,Need we say it was not love,Now that love is perished?

Dorothy Parker (1893-1967), From A Letter From Lesbia:

... So, praise the gods, Catullus is away!And let me tend you this advice, my dear:Take any lover that you will, or may,Except a poet. All of them are queer.

It's just the same -- a quarrel or a kissIs but a tune to play upon his pipe.He's always hymning that or wailing this;Myself, I much prefer the business type.

That thing he wrote, the time the sparrow died --(Oh, most unpleasant -- gloomy, tedious words!)I called it sweet, and made believe I cried;The stupid fool! I've always hated birds ...